Calamity
by Sookie Starchild
Summary: At the moment of his death, the spirit of the Long Lake curses Smaug with a human form. Is he meant to repent for his crimes? Learn the beauty of the world he was so enamored with destroying? Or is he just supposed to suffer?
1. Chapter 1

_O Fire._

_O Death._

_What have you wrought?_

The pain was fading away as he fell deep into the cold and the shadow. Smaug knew this shadow of old and harbored no fear of darkness or its depths. It was, to him, a return. And yet, how furious he was to have been slain, how bitter his hatred towards those who had driven him from his treasures. Within the fall, he knew nothing but anger and it called him to fight. Scrambling with claws, with spears, he pulled towards the shallows of the lake and life once more.

Almost, almost back to the sun and to revenge. The shadow wisped away, and he would rise from the shores and bathe the Children of Men and the Line of Durin in flame.

The pain returned. It bloomed from his chest and its branches wrapped around his heart and his body. It was a wretched tree of death, and there was no way to conquer it.

He roared into the silence and ever more silence was the answer.

_I will help you._

_I will curse you. _

_Away from your darkness and into the light, you seek to climb?_

_Then climb you shall._

He fell backwards then, but not into the shadow. Into a place of light, blue as a midnight full of stars, where above him was a sky not of sky but of shimmers, and he was more weightless than when he had taken flight. Before him was a spirit in the shape of mortal creatures, with pale bare limbs and hair of spun copper that floated about her ivory face. She raised her dainty hand, with strands of pearls woven between her fingers, and held it towards the mark of the black arrow.

_Live, O Death. _

_Live._


	2. Chapter 2

"No." Cerys said with her arms folded across her chest. She was a slight girl of only nineteen, with hair the color of wild almonds and freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were as hard as flint, and no one in all of Lake Town had ever seen her smile. It would have unsettled them if they had.

"Come along and be reasonable," Kenon begged, "What else am I to do with him? He's not of here, we all know as much as that, and he won't say what he's come for. Whatever it was – or whoever knew him – is gone up in the dragon fire. The Elves say that they're marching to the mountain come morning, and those who will not fight must stay here and tend to the sick. I go with them, and many another healer who can take up arms, and there is no one to care for him. His wounds are healed. It's his mind that is the problem."

"And what has that got to do with me?" She narrowed her eyes, "Do I look as though I don't have my own troubles? I do not intend to stay in these ruined parts. My husband's bones are at the bottom of the lake that loved him, and there they stay. As for me, I plan to return to Gondor and my own people—"

"Good! Take the stranger with you!" Kenon snapped his fingers with the idea, "He has no place with us, and it'll be safer on the road if you've a man along."

"A man you say is touched in the head."

The stranger had been found naked and lying in the shallows. As far as anyone had been able to guess, his clothes had caught fire during the dragon's attack, and he'd jumped into the water to put them out, and the waves must then have taken the rags from him. The curious part was that he had no burns. The only wound on him was a mark on his chest that looked like a black star. The Elves hadn't been able to say what might have caused such an injury.

And now the stranger was awake. He was also making it his business to annoy people with stupid questions and absurd demands. All of the healers had decided there was some kind of trauma to the head, something they couldn't see on the outside but was having considerable effect on the inside. There wasn't time for it. The town was destroyed, their supplies were low, the aid of the Elves could only go so far, and on the morrow they were marching on the Dwarves. All of the people Kenon could think of who might be useful in the current situation were either dead or in charge of the army.

"If you take him," he said, "I'll give you gold enough for the journey, and my cart and horse. Many a man could use that cart in the days to come, mind you. You're not likely to find anyone else who'll spare you things like that."

Cerys nodded. This was true.

"And why would you be willing to part with them?" Her voice was sharp with suspicion.

"Because I'm going to war, girl. If we lose, then I am lost. I'm no fighter. If we win, we will have the mountain's gold and I'll probably be paid enough for half a dozen carts and two horses."

"Fine." She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips, "Have him here by dawn, or I'm leaving without him."

* * *

Smaug did not think that he would ever get used to having square teeth. There were other things he still wasn't accustomed to – the balance of being heavier and lighter at the same time, the length of his arms, the coldness of his breath. But the teeth bothered him the most, and he thought that this was surprising. If someone had said to him that he was going to wake up in the form of a Man and the chief complaint he would have would be the _shape_ of his _teeth_, he would have lit them ablaze and called it a favor to their kin. But there he was, and there it was, and he was trying not to think too much about it, because he really thought he might go insane. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and shook his head.

And he only had the one set of eyelids.

All in all, he felt that he had done extremely well adapting to his new reality. A lesser creature, or even a younger dragon, might have tried to go on some sort of rampage, but Smaug had been calm. He had only destroyed a portion of the healing tents and then waded chest-deep into the lake to demand his form back. An Elf had shot him with a tiny dart from the beach, and when he had awoken for the second time, he decided to try and avoid further conflict until he was better with his current body and could find some torches. He could not make fire within, but he could still burn things that annoyed him.

One of the mortals was talking to him, and he was nodding along but not listening. Something about the White City and a horse. It really didn't matter. All Smaug wanted was to have his form back, to have his treasure back, and to watch Bard the Bowman die. And also, if it were at all possible, for that horrendous lake spirit to dry up from thirst and then catch aflame. _Live, O Death_ indeed.

"Come along, then." The mortal said in a very definite kind of way, and stood up. He appeared to be waiting for Smaug to stand up as well, but he didn't get what he wanted. He got a languid expression of disinterest and a raised eyebrow. "No point in arguing about it. You can go with her if you'd like, and I think it's your best option, or you can stay here and become a beggar with no more bed to sleep in. Unless you want to join the fighting, but I can't say I see you as much of a swordsman. You can't even pour yourself a glass of water without spilling it, and the less said about you and that spoon the better, hey?"

"These arms are strange, but I _have_ gotten better with them. I used the fork yesterday." Smaug said in his deep and velvety voice.

Kenon nodded and decided to go on as though he hadn't heard what the stranger had said. He had done this many times before.

"It'll be an easy journey, though Cerys is not a soft woman. And she's a widow now, which is likely to make her all the more sour, but she's a fair cook and she'll keep you on the right roads. Maybe it's for the best to move away from whatever happened to you here, have a fresh start. Or who knows? You might start to remember what it is you wanted and where it was you came from."

"I came from the North." Smaug said.

He had said this before, but the only Men further north than the ones in Lake Town were the hill-men of Angmar. Kenon nodded again and decided he hadn't heard that part either.

"If you want to be going north, maybe the best way of it is to go south first. Or so the saying goes."

Smaug considered this. From a certain point of view, what the mortal had said was rambling gibberish. But then, maybe going south would be a good idea. He could adapt to this new form further away from the prying eyes of those he wished to destroy. Then, when he returned to claim vengeance, it would be all the more unexpected and terrible.

"Very well. I will take the opportunity to hone the skills that I will need for my revenge."

"Mmm-hmm," Kenon nodded. "We'd best be on our way, though. I promised I'd have you over there before daybreak."

Smaug rose from his sickbed and headed for the opening in the white muslin walls. Outside was a milky pink dawn, and something on the air that smelled like destiny. Or kelp. His new nose wasn't nearly as good as his old one.

"Wait a minute there, stranger!" Kenon called, "You'll need to put on some travelling clothes!"

Smaug looked down at the rough-spun tunic that reached to his knees. It was what the Elves had put him in. He looked over his shoulder at Kenon.

"Why?"


	3. Chapter 3

He was tall, and he looked like he had good shoulders, which meant that he might be able to learn the crossbow if she had the patience to teach it to him. And he seemed formidable, even if his face had a touch of Elf in it – particularly around the eyes. In a ragged coat, with bloodstains on the sleeves, and trousers that were too baggy, he came across a little like the type of person who'd steal the clothes off of a man after he killed him. In his way, he reminded Cerys of a scarecrow, and that was just the sort of job she needed him for: keeping things away until she got back home.

She nodded. He'd do fine.

"What do they call you?" She asked.

He considered this with long and deep introspection. Cerys didn't know quite what to do about that. In her experience, people answered simple questions very quickly.

"I have been called by many titles." He finally said.

"Alright. And which of them was your favorite?"

This question resulted in as much concentration as the first. It felt as though a full hour had passed before he finally said:

"The Most Magnificent of Living Things."

Cerys put a hand on one hip and raised an eyebrow.

"I'll give you until nightfall to pick a proper name. If you can't come up with one, I'll call you by the first thing that catches my eye. That won't be so bad if it's Pony, but don't think you can press your luck. It might be Shitpile." She lifted herself into the driver's seat of the cart and grabbed the reigns. The horse snuffled, its breath turning to steam on the cold morning air. It stamped its hooves a few times, readying itself for her commands.

The stranger just stood where he was.

"Well? Are you coming along or staying here? Makes no difference to me, I've got Kenon's gold and by the time he's back from the fighting, I'll be more than half way to Minas Tirith. Whether or not you're beside me."

Awkwardly, slipping a little here and there, the stranger managed to lift himself up onto the bench of the cart. He twisted himself around, adjusted his legs and sat down with a heavy thud. He sighed, like he'd just carried a crate full of rank fish across town, and cleared his throat.

"I think that went rather well." He said, more to himself than to Cerys.

Once, when she'd been a little girl, Cerys had gotten a terrible fever which didn't look at all like it was going to break. For eleven days she'd laid in her parents' big bed, swimming in an ocean of blankets and sweat and battered back and forth by a tide of delirium. Outside of her window there'd been white rooftops and white shadows, which had seemed common to her all the days before, but as she was walking in and out of death in her sickness, they turned into the palaces of fallen kings and ghostly stewards. And when she was well again, it hadn't been a quick recovery at all. Almost a full spring had passed before she had the strength to run and play with the other girls, and even long after there were days when she felt like her limbs were bags of sand instead of muscle and bone.

She didn't know what the stranger had gone through on the day of the dragon fire, but it was probably something much worse than a fever. She had no place looking at him askance for having troubles moving himself around.

"You're in the cart." She shrugged and snapped the reigns.

The horse trotted along at a sensible pace, down the path that would lead them away from the shanty town of tents and Elven mercy, and back to the ruins of Lake Town. From there, they would follow the road south, keeping clear of the turns that would take them west – towards the Mirkwood or the mountains. The Celduin would keep them company until they came to the Brown Lands, and from there they would have to travel into Rohan and along the merchant roads from Edoras to Minas Tirith. It didn't sound too difficult when it was all laid out like a line on a map, but even with good traveling it could take almost a year.

The sun rose above them, bright and unimpeded, and the sky was blue and filled with silence. For most of the morning, the only sound was the horse clopping along.

"I should probably tell you—" Cerys started to say, but then she shook her head, "No. It doesn't matter. It's nothing to do with you."

The stranger wasn't even listening. He was watching the shores of the lake with a hard look in his eyes. Cerys nodded. They were coming soon to the place where whatever had happened to him had happened.

She looked up. It was just after midday.

"Are you hungry?"

The stranger blinked himself away from whatever was occupying his mind.

"Yes," he said, "I think I'd like to eat a sheep. Have we any?"

"No, your lordship," Cerys rolled her eyes and scoffed, "There's no lamb chops and mint jelly on a journey with me. You'll be having cured trout, fresh water and a slice of bread. And that's the beginning and the end of it."

"Cured… trout." The stranger looked over his shoulder at the supplies that were bundled under a square of burlap, bulging in the back of the cart. "What is all of that, then?"

"Some of it is the trout, some of it is the fresh water – unless you'd care to drink from a river running with dragon blood – some of it is bread. There are bedrolls, my clothing, a set of copper pots that I saved from my house, and things that might be of use. A coil of rope, a fishing pole. Supplies." She looked him over again, "Surely you've traveled before. You must have gotten from your own lands to the lake _somehow_."

"I have…" the stranger paused, tilted his head and looked to be appraising her before he went on, "I have always hunted my way across lands. I travel quickly, with no horses or equipment. I hunt for myself as I go, and I go on the same routes that the crows and ravens fly. I've never been anywhere by cart before."

Cerys stopped the horse.

"And are you much of a hunter?" She asked.

"Tremendous."

"Can you snare rabbits? Or do you take down a deer more easily?"

He thought again. For a long and awkward time they sat, with her staring at him and waiting for some kind of answer. Finally, he looked at her with an odd smile and said:

"Where is this trout that I'm supposed to eat?"

She rolled her eyes at him again, then climbed out to fetch their lunch.

The trout was given to him in a fat rectangle. It was bright red, and the outside of it had gone hard and shiny. He looked at it incredulously, beat it against his palm once or twice, sniffed it, and took a bite.

His face became a picture of absolute disgust.

"Don't you dare go spitting that out!" Cerys scolded, "You eat all that I've given you! You're still a weak man, don't forget, and I've nothing different to feed you. Get a taste for that trout and quick, or it's the back of a copper pan against your head, make no mistake!"

With obvious difficulty, he managed to swallow.

"It tastes like a rancid bog. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes. I am. I am also aware that you are a penniless beggar who is coming along with me on my goodwill, and that it is very kindhearted of me to have bought enough food for the both of us."

He smiled at her coldly and eyed the trout with disdain.

Cerys finished eating, tended to the horse, and prepared to drive on. The stranger was radiating an uncomfortable mixture of haughtiness and petulance. If there was to be any peace that afternoon, she was going to have to take his mind off of food.

"Have you picked out a name yet?" She asked.

"I wish to have a good name. Something strong, terrifying and elegant. A name that people will hear and know that it belongs to a force beyond control, a power almost of nature."

"How about Brian?"

The stranger cringed. "No."

"No need to pull faces. It was just a suggestion." Cerys said coldly, "Brian's a fine name. Many a good man's been called Brian. You haven't even come up with anything of your own. You're going to end up being called Fox Carcass the rest of your days, and then you'll be _wishing_ you'd taken up Brian."

They traveled on until twilight, when a smell of charred wood and old smoke filled the air. Stars were starting to dot the sky and a slim moon was rising. The bones of Esgaroth were black and jagged on the lake, and beyond them the bones of Smaug the dragon were rotting.

"We should make camp soon," Cerys said softly, "But I want to drive on aways. There are too many memories in these shadows. We're sure to dream if we sleep in this place."

The stranger nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the deep shadow in the distance. The body of the dragon. He jumped from the cart as it rolled along and started running towards it.

"Wait!" Cerys cried. "Where are you going? It's not safe that way!"

He ran on, as though he hadn't heard her.

The sound of the hoofs on the ground followed him, and she called to him once or twice more, but her voice might as well have been a whisper on the wind. Something in his chest was driving him forward, but Smaug had no mind for introspection. His breathing was hard, the night air was colder against his skin than he was comfortable with, and he could feel a tension in his long, awkward legs that pulled and ached.

And then he was before himself. His own body. His own wings, claws, tail. His eyes open and cloudy white, his jaw slack and his teeth bare, his gums rotting off of them. It was a pitiful, fearless sight, and it made his spirit seem smaller even than the form it had been trapped in.

He waded through the shallows. The stink was almost unbearable. He could feel two sets of eyes on him, those of the mortal woman, and those of the Lake.

"Get back here!" The woman called to him, "It's not safe! Don't go near that thing!"

_That thing_.

All that he had been before had become _that thing_. A dead monster in the mud. There was splashing behind him, and then arms pulling at his.

"Come away! Come away!" The woman said, and tried to make him move. He looked at her. She was frightened. She was up to her hips in the water, still swirling with black blood, and her skirts floated around her.

He turned his gaze to the lake, and his memory of the creature that had cursed him. He could feel her laughing.

"Go back to the cart." Smaug said to the woman.

"What are you doing?" She begged.

He pulled himself free of her grasp and ventured closer to the dragon. He felt something hard beneath his boot, and stepped back. There was a glimmer there. An irresistible shine. Smaug reached into the slime of the sand and kelp and pulled it out.

A gold coin.

When last he'd seen it, it was no bigger than a flake of glitter than slipped between his claws. Now it was the size of his palm.

"Leave it. It's not worth the curse." The woman said.

Smaug tucked it into his pocket and headed back towards the shore. It was already his curse.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sanulimul." He said quietly, tracing the edge of the coin with his fingers. He was sitting beside the fire, watching the red light dance on the gold and listening to the crackling of the wood. He craved the warmth of it, and had sat beside it since it had been lit. There was comfort there.

Cerys had put up the two small tents and had a line of rope tied between the trees, where she was drying her skirts and the stranger's overcoat. She hummed a song to herself, pulling a kettle and pan from the back of the cart. It was a melancholy song.

"What's that?" She asked, pulling an onion from a small sack in the back.

He looked up at her questioningly.

"Sanulimul." She said, "What is it?"

"It is a word. In Khuzdul. It means gold that is no longer golden. Perhaps it ought to be my name."

Cerys sat on a log across from him, the fire between them, slicing the onion into the pan. She glanced up at him once or twice, but mostly kept her eyes on her work. When she was finished with the onion, she nodded.

"If a Dwarf told you that, he was lying." She said, "Their language is secret. They will not teach it to outsiders."

"I learned it from their runes." He looked up from the coin, and for a moment the fire danced in his eyes. "What do you think of it?"

"If I were to pick a new name for myself, I'd want one that looked to what I could become, not what I wasn't anymore." Cerys put the pan in the fire, shaking it back and forth, "How about Stig? It was a name I heard from time to time in Dale. I think it means a traveler."

"You pick fat names. Short, fat sounds." He tucked the coin back in his pocket, and took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with an exquisite, dancing smell that made his mouth water. He hadn't smelled anything so appetizing in quite some time, and it was an odor he didn't think he knew. He leaned towards the pan on the fire and looked into it with greedy eyes. "That _smell_…"

"Hmm," Cerys nodded. "Thought that might do it. I was trying to save them for a day with a harder journey, but I can't have you complaining about your stomach all tomorrow. It'd drive me to murder."

"I never thought that vegetation could be appetizing."

Afterwards, when the meal was done and the pan put away, Cerys grabbed a bucket of water from the babbling river and poured it onto the fire. It hissed and steamed, and left them in the dark. The stranger sat where he was, watching the embers cool.

"Your coat'll be dry by morning." She told him, and made her way to her tent. She looked over her shoulder at him, just to see what he would do next.

He had the coin back out and was studying it. Running his thumbs over the details of the letters etched into it. Something about the look on his face made her sorry for him.

"What happened to you?" She asked, "Out on the lake that day?"

"I died." He said simply, without taking his eyes off the coin.

Cerys didn't say anything more. She went into her tent and climbed under the thing blanket of her bedroll, and she wondered about the stranger until all her thoughts faded away and she was left with sleep. She'd decided to give him a little more time to pick out a name.

* * *

It was a little after dawn when Smaug awoke to the sounds of retching.

He was tired and bleary eyed, and his hair was a mess of tangles as he stumbled out of his tent. There was a pot of something sitting next to the fire, and a warm smell coming from it. A package of cured trout was half-unwrapped on the log next to it. It looked to him like the woman had left in a hurry during her morning preparations.

The sounds, unpleasant as they were, were coming from inside the wood.

It would probably be a good idea to make sure that the woman wasn't choking on a fountain of her own blood, or something equally detrimental to Smaug's progress. He was now in the wilderness, away from anyone who could aid him with adjusting to his new form. If the woman died, it would be incredibly inconvenient. Though he could probably cook the horse instead of having to eat any more trout.

He found her doubled over and vomiting into the roots of a tree.

"Ew." He sneered.

"Oh, get away!" She groaned, covering her mouth with her hand and glaring at him.

"It's probably because of that _dreadful_ fish you made us eat."

"It's not the fish! Go back to camp and put on a shirt!"

He looked down at his bare chest and shook his head. "Is this illness of yours catching? My body seems to be very delicate…"

"No," She sounded angry, "Don't be a fool. Get away with you."

"Very well." Smaug bowed his head ever so slightly and went back to the fire. He checked the clothes on the line as he passed them, and his coat was indeed dry. He pulled it off the line and took it with him. When he had been a dragon, sickness had manifested in a putrid type of magma that dribble out between his teeth and left chasms of charred ground where it fell. Plants could never grow on that earth. He looked at the top of the tree where he knew the woman to still be. Would it turn black and die now?

Cerys arrived a few moments later. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her face looked pale and drawn, but she'd washed up a bit in the river and, though her stomach felt empty, she wasn't nauseated anymore. But it had taken a toll, and she was exhausted. If it kept on, and she knew it would, she was going to have to teach the stranger how to drive.

He was dressed and waiting for her, gnawing on a piece of trout, and looking deeply offended by everything.

Maybe she'd give it a few days before she started any kind of lessons.

"Did you sleep?" She asked. He nodded. "Good. We'd best be on the road."

They spent another morning travelling in silence. The sky was filling with cheerful white clouds and the crispness of the early winter air. The cold would not follow them south, and for that Cerys was grateful. It looked like it was going to be a bitter winter in the north.

On the seat beside her, the stranger took the coin from his pocket every now and then and it turned it over in his fingers. Just a quickl gleam of gold she caught out of the corner of her eye. It was making her uneasy.

"I wish you'd toss that thing onto the road and leave it well behind us." She grumbled.

He held it up in front of himself and gave a sardonic little chuckle.

"I should like to wear it, I think," he said. "On a chain of gold around my neck."

"You'd spend a pretty penny having that done, and it would be for nothing more than a token of wickedness," Cerys replied, her eyes hard and fixed on the distance. "Dragon gold drives men mad. Haven't you ever been told?"

"Were you frightened of Smaug when he came?" The stranger asked, tucking the coin back into his pocket.

Cerys remembered the night of running from her burning home, arms full of anything precious she could carry, heart beating fast for the husband who was somewhere along the docks getting ready to go out for a night of fishing. So many things had been destroyed.

"I was afraid of the fire," she said slowly. "The heat of it, and what it would burn. I could hear the dragon, but it was like hearing the wind in a storm. You fear the clatter of the shutters, the strike of the lightning, but you don't fear the rain of it or the wind. You fear what will be _done_ by the rain and wind. I shall always hate the dragon, because he killed my love and destroyed my home. But it is not the same as hating a man. Not for me. You cannot truly hate a beast that way, since it is just a beast. Even if it's one as cunning as a dragon."

He did not like this answer.

"You ought to have been more afraid of the dragon than its fire," he said. "Smaug had many ways to destroy Lake Town. Fire was merely the fastest. And his mind was not only cunning, it was cruel. He was a genius of destruction, he could play notes of agony on the world the way an Elf plays his flute. He was _old_ and the years had given him wisdom. He was no mere beast. This love of yours, did he burn?"

"Yes."

"Be grateful he was not eaten. Or slashed through with a claw."

The woman didn't reply at first.

The space around her was filled with rage – a raw and white-hot fury than was so strong, he could feel it pushing up against him. After awhile she said:

"At the first sign of bad luck, I am throwing your damn coin in the river. Even if I have to pry it out of your hands to get it. You and your accursed dragon gold will not stop me getting to Minas Tirith."

The stranger looked at her.

"Dragons are more than beasts because they are the same as men," he said quietly. "Men kill out of rage. Men kill out of greed. They too burn the houses of their enemies, locking the doors to keep them inside first, then setting torches to the roofs. They take daggers to the throats of their own brothers to seize riches and titles, and a title cannot even be held up to the light. A title cannot be admired for its beauty. It is a word on a page, and yet a man will bring about evils more wretched than dragon fire to get it. We are all wicked creatures. In our ways."

Cerys glanced at him.

"Alright," she said in a lighter voice, "what's your name to be? I've given you more than enough time."

He shook his head and looked at the ground as they drove along it.

"Kingsfoil."

She laughed. It was a very girlish laugh, and she caught herself halfway into it and wiped the smile from her lips.

"That won't serve you very well in Gondor. Pick another one."

"I'll come up with something later," he waved a hand dismissively. "I'm hungry. Prepare me some onions."

The cart was stopped, and a stick of cured trout was fetched and placed in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at it.

"I know a kind of game that's to do with fish," the woman said, taking the reins back up. "Alright. It's a word game. Now, a mother makes a fish dinner for her husband and leaves it on the table to go and speak with her neighbor. When she gets back, she finds that the fish has been eaten up, so she calls her three sons to her, and she asks them: 'which among you has eaten this fish?' She's _very_ cross. Liable to choke the boy that's done it with her bare hands. So, naturally, the eldest boy says: '_I_ ate it, and it was very good, too!' So the second son says: 'I saw him eat it, Mother. He gobbled it right up.' So the third son says: 'All I know about it is that the middle son and I didn't eat any of it.' Now, one of the boys is telling a lie. Which one is it?"

The stranger couldn't hold back his grin.

"That's not a _word game_, woman," he drawled. "It is a _riddle_. And the answer is, of course, that the third son is lying. He and the eldest shared the fish, while the middle son watched."

"Hmm." Cerys nodded, looking very put-out, "Well, riddle it may be, but it normally takes a bit more figuring than that. Though you are right about the answer. I suppose you've heard that one before."

"No. Never."

He chuckled triumphantly and ate the trout without complaint.

* * *

_A/N: Hi everybody! Thanks for following along with this story! _

_I need a beta. My usual pre-reader is overwhelmed with the non-fanfiction short stories I've given her, as well as my on-going LotR multi-chap, and something had to give. Since she's not big on romance, she asked if she could drop _Calamity_ and I agreed. So, if anybody can recommend someone or volunteer, just send me a PM. It's 2+ updates a week, all chapters between 1000-3000 words. Thanks again!_

_-Sookie _


	5. Chapter 5

They'd been on the road for two months, making camp along the way, with the Mirkwood always on the horizon to their right, and the ruins of Esgaroth fading behind them. The stranger offered his suggestions for his own name at least once a day, and Cerys offered hers. Nothing seemed to ever fit right. It was strange, but when there was just the two of them, there was no call for names. They always knew that they were speaking to one another.

Cerys found herself sick not only in the mornings, but in the afternoons as well. It slowed their progress, having to stop, but the stranger hadn't said much about it after the first two weeks. She'd taught him how to handle the cart, and he seemed to like being in charge of the driving. He always did it with his shoulders back like a king's and his nose in the air.

He was getting more graceful, too. He tripped less and handled himself more effortlessly. Cerys was pleased with that.

She was sitting on the bench with him, wrapped in a heavy shawl and watching his hands adjust themselves on the reins. It was a misty morning, with a light rain starting to fall and deep grey skies above them. They were coming to a small settlement soon, fur trappers on the south east edge of the forest, and if the weather turned on them, that's where they'd have to stay.

"I have never been so far south before," the stranger said, breathing in the air around him. "It seems the sky is softer here. Tell me, what is this city of yours like. Truly?"

"Truly?" She said in a soft and dreamy voice, "It is lovely. The summers there are long, and the winters are short, but it's a place of eternal snow. It's white all over, you know. Every street and every brick shines like a pearl. And then there is the tree, which I cannot describe, but you will see it when we get there. You'll never forget that tree, I promise you."

"Sounds like a jewel."

"Hmm, it is." Cerys nodded, her eyes closed, "And what was it like where you came from, before Lake Town?"

"Oh. There," he chuckled, "_That_ is a dark unhappy place, where fell breezes stir the black grass and the night is filled with the shrieks and howls of terrible creatures. The sun is cold in that country, and it rises late. There are no pretty trees, no white stone; only jagged cliffs and deep caverns, so deep that the shadows would burn into your eyes. And everything is trying to eat everything else."

"What do the people there do?" She adjusted her shawl more snugly around her.

"Cower and hide, mostly. There are not many people, only the sons of those last tribes to serve the Witch-King."

"It must've taken some doing, getting away from a place as dangerous as that." Cerys yawned.

"All I needed was a clear sky and a good sense of what direction the gold was in." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, expecting to be scolded about his money-obsession, but she had fallen fast asleep. It was not the first time that she had faded on him, and he was beginning to wonder if she might be dying.

It wouldn't be so inconvenient now that he knew how to handle the cart, and she'd shown him how to light a campfire with sticks – a strangely disheartening activity. But he still didn't know how to get his own food, and he had grown accustomed to having someone listen to him talk. It seemed better than just letting his own brilliant intellect grow stale in his own now-mortal head. _No_, he thought, _the woman is not allowed to die._

He could see, in the distance, the shapes of houses. Like they were drawn in faded charcoal against the grey clouds. Puffs of white smoke rose from their chimneys, and the smell of baked bread hung faintly on the air. The rain was starting to fall faster, and the drops were becoming wide splashes when they landed. The stranger cracked the reins and told the horse to pick up speed.

Cerys awoke from the sound of quickened hooves. She yawned again and stretched.

"Nearly there," she said. "It'll be nice to see a face that isn't yours."

"I'm looking forward to eating _food_. It's been awhile."

"Yes. I suppose we'd best stock up while we can, and see if they have any onions for you. Maybe some mushrooms to go along side them. Do you like mushrooms?"

"I have no idea. Do you imagine they'll have lamb? Or venison? I would prefer the lamb, but—"

"We haven't the money for venison!" Cerys scolded, "And don't you try talking to any merchants, because they'll be able to swindle you better than if you'd been born yesterday. You have no head for practical matters, and next you'll know we'll have three lemon cakes and two barrels of milk in our cart instead of any sort of provisions."

"I am quite good with money, I should like to remind you."

"You're good at admiring it and keeping it in your pocket, but not at spending it. And if you try to make a fight of this, I'll hit you with the pan."

The rain was coming down in sheets when they came into the village proper. A few women were at their windows, watching the cart drive up. Cerys told the stranger to stop at the house with the lantern in the window and the stable beside it. That would be the closest thing to an inn.

When she'd been travelling with her new husband, on her way to Lake Town for the first time, it had been in the summer. The trappers were all at home, and a camp of travelling merchants had popped up around the edges of the village. The merchants had traded the villagers for the furs, traded other good amongst themselves, and then moved on in all directions. It had been a noisy, busy season full of flowers, song and wine.

The days had been golden then, but now they were grey and cold. The trappers were in the wood, hunting for the thick winter pelts that would bring them the best prices. Their wives and daughters and mothers were all who remained in the village itself.

A woman with strong arms and iron grey hair came out of the rooming house and patted the nose of their horse. She had gentle eyes and a grandmotherly air.

"Peddlers, then?" She asked, noting the stack of goods in the back of the cart.

"No," Cerys answered, "We've come from Lake Town, where the dragon destroyed the houses and now lies dead with an arrow in his breast."

Smaug couldn't help but wince beside her, and the black star on his chest felt cold.

"Of all things!" The landlady gasped, "Come in out of the rain, and just for the story I'll give you both a hot meal."

So they went inside, where a crackling fire and a pot of stew was waiting to greet them. Cerys told the tale of Bard the Bowmen and the Dwarves returning to their mountain, and she told of the destruction and the marching of the Elves – which had saved more lives than could be counted. She spoke carefully and didn't color the story with her own woes.

"Nothing remains of the town, and there is no way to know what will become of the people now," she said, breaking a piece of fresh bread. "My family is in Minas Tirith, and that is where we're headed."

"And in such a foul season!" The landlady clucked her tongue, "Well, I suppose you don't have much choice in the matter. You've a baby on the way, and it's his schedule now. I know how that goes."

The stranger looked up sharply from his stew and turned his head to Cerys. His eyes were wide.

"When, exactly, were you going to tell me that you were carrying a child?" He demanded.

The landlady covered the guilty smile on her mouth and tried to keep her composure. She wanted to see what was going to be said. The makings of a good bit of gossip were in front of her.

"And what did you think was going on?" Cerys scoffed, pushing her chair back and motioning at her somewhat expanded stomach. She didn't have too much of a belly yet, but anyone who had seen a few pregnant women could guess her situation.

"I thought you were getting fat!" The stranger cried, "It's winter! Things get fatter in the winter – women included!"

"Why did you think I was sleeping all the time?"

"It is _winter_."

"I'm not a bear, you daft Tomnoddy!"

The stranger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How long have you known about this?"

"Four months." Cerys answered, folding her arms across her chest.

"_Four months_?" He snarled, "Were you ever going to tell me? Or was I just supposed to wake up and notice the crying?"

"I tried to tell you a few times, but I didn't want you to make a scene." Cerys shrugged.

"Well," the landlady stood up and started clearing up the bowls and cups, "I'll just let you two sort this all out, shall I?"

They stayed the week at the inn, and the sleepy village was rich with whispered conversation. Everyone had heard bits and pieces of the story, and all were more than happy to make leaps of logic that made the whole thing seem more scandalous. It had been years since listening through doors had been so much fun.

"What shall I do, then? Leave it in the woods and let the wolves raise it?" Cerys was shouting one morning.

"Is that an option?" The stranger asked her so earnestly, she threw a book at him.

The rain broke and the sky cleared, and Cerys bargained for food and new blankets. The women of the village were happy to give her a bargain on it, and cast dark looks at her man all that day. And the next morning, when the cart was loaded up and ready to leave, they gathered at their windows and in their doorframes to see how it would all go.

Cerys was sitting on the driver's bench, holding the reins and glaring icicles at the stranger.

"I am going to the White City, and I am going to have a baby," she said. "You can come along with me, or you can sort yourself out here and see if they'll give you any work to earn your keep with. It makes no difference to me. I'd sooner keep the baby than you."

The stranger was grumbling, but Cerys couldn't make out what he was saying. He lifted himself onto the bench and grabbed the reins from her.

"Go to sleep." He commanded, and urged the horse forward.

* * *

_A/N: Special thanks to my shiny new beta, _AliceNotInWL_! And a big thanks to the other wonderful people who volunteered for the job!_

_ I hope everyone is still enjoying the story! It took me a little longer than I would have liked to get this chapter up, because my account was giving me a devil of a time adding new chapter and accessing the story manager._


	6. Chapter 6

Time passed strangely for Smaug in his new form. It took the day longer to go by, but the hours within that day could fly by him without any notice. Three months to him when he had been among his treasures in the Lonley Mountain would have been no more than an afternoon nap to him now. And yet, it felt as though centuries had gone by as he and the woman came to the end of the Mirkwood and looked upon the Brown Lands.

There were no more trees there, just the stale and forgotten ground.

"Nothing to do but pass through it," Cerys braced herself, the cart stopped just on the edge of the last of the trees, "It's likely to be the most dangerous part of the journey, but if we want to get to Rohan, it's the only thing we can do."

"The earth is poisoned here."

She nodded. "I was told there was such a great battle that the land was tainted. Once it was the place where the Entwives made their gardens, and it was green – the feeling of crisp greenness, the freshness of the grass. Rivers ran through here as clear as a piece of glass, and you could see the fish and rocks within them. There were flowers so rich in color and delicate in their beauty, that Elven Lords would come to pick them for their brides. And a wind would blow across and down to Gondor, and on that wind was the smell of the flower petals, the sap from the trees, the roots and the deep richness of the earth itself. They would call it the Summer Wind, no matter when it came, for it was always summer in this place. But now, so it goes, it brings only the smell of dry bones."

Smaug tried to picture the way it had been, but he couldn't.

"I have never seen a garden." He realized.

"Oh, well," Cerys nodded, "that's probably why you're such a disagreeable person. We'll get you to one, and it'll be sure to calm your tempers a bit."

He gave her a sidelong glance.

"Have you ever seen a diamond?" he asked, remembering the cold glitter of the stones. He did not know the colors of wildflowers in the spring, but he knew the colors of gems.

"No," she said, "I've never understood the point of diamonds, to tell you plainly. What are they _for_?"

"Having. Keeping. Admiring."

"And?"

"What do you mean '_And?_'" He balked, "Diamonds, unlike gardens, can be brought along anywhere you go. They can be worn at your throat, at your wrist, tied with golden thread and woven into your hair. If I were to kill a man and take his garden, what would that do? We would travel away and never see it again, or it would wither and die. But if I were to kill him and take his diamond, we would always have a treasure."

"Why would you kill anybody?" She asked. "It's a foolish idea all around. And even if we had a diamond through honest means, I would sell it for some proper gold."

"Gold is a fine thing as well." He nodded.

Cerys sighed. She was tired of talking about money, which seemed to be the stranger's favorite subject. An odd obsession for someone who owned only a dead man's coat and a cursed coin.

Travelling in the winter was harsh, not only for the cold rains and frosted ground, but because supplies were low. The last trading post they'd found had charged them three times what they would have had to pay in the summer, and Cerys was not a rich woman. She was starting to worry that her purse would be empty before they got to Minas Tirith.

The horse was walking carefully, as though it were his intention to tiptoe all the way to Rohan.

These lands were a foul place, and only orcs and goblins had the stomach for crossing them. Cerys hummed a tune to take her mind off of it; a lament that she'd known since girlhood, about the men of Gondor marching to aid the Elves and falling in battle. She never sang the words, the words were too sorrowful.

The cart rattled forward, with the melody settling on the path behind them like a cloud of dust.

"Stop." The stranger said suddenly, reaching over and grabbing her hand on the reins.

"What's the matter?"

Smaug could feel something familiar. His skin was prickling, and his ears were trying to catch a sound that was just beyond them. His old instincts were trying to tell him something, but his new form was limited. He cursed himself and his body, and wished again for a proper nose.

"Don't sing," he told the woman, "It's waking something up."

She covered her mouth with her fingertips and looked about. There was nothing but flat, barren land on all sides. Calmly, he took the reins and drove the horse on.

He could feel something following them, but he didn't turn around. He wouldn't have been able to see it anyway.

* * *

That night, they built a very small fire.

There wouldn't have been any fire were it not for the fact that they'd come too far from the river, and all the water they had was taken from the small and stagnant lakes of the Brown Lands. It needed boiling.

Cerys was peeling a few potatoes that they'd gotten the week before from a merchant who was heading north and passed them by. He'd given them up in exchange for word on Lake Town. The stranger was not looking forward to trying them; he hadn't said anything, but he'd been glancing at them with some suspicion. When she came to think of it, Cerys wasn't too surprised. If they didn't have any sort of potato where he hailed from, then they very well might seem strange. Ugly brown lumps pulled up from the ground and cooked until they were soft enough to chew. Not too appetizing, really.

"We should sleep in the cart." The stranger announced, standing on the very edge of their firelight and looking into the darkness of the hills around them. "You in the back, and I on the bench."

"Yes. I was wondering about something like that." Cerys nodded, "It's a curious thing. I came through here just a year and a half ago, and it wasn't as… dangerous as it seems to be now."

The stranger came to sit across from her.

"Things are changing," he said. "Dark creatures are stirring, old and dead things are finding themselves reborn. In the north, in the land that I am from, the beasts and worms are growing restless. It is a slow change, but it will come swiftly in the end. There is movement in the darkness. The world will be different now."

Cerys put a hand on her belly and looked out to the dark horizon. She thought of the sweet flower winds that carried only the scent of death. She thought of spiders in the Mirkwood and dragons in the Lonely Mountain. She thought of the White City turning as black as coal, its women dressed in mourning clothes and the blood of its sons soaking into the grass of a thousand battlefields. What sort of times would her child live in? Would her baby be as the stranger, and never see a garden?

"I suppose I should try to think up a name for myself." The stranger decided.

"Yes," Cerys answered distantly, "I'm beginning to think that the baby will be named before you are."

"Impossible."

"I already have an idea of what I'm going to call her." She told him, pulling herself away from unhappy thoughts, "I think I like Gilraen. Wandering Star. I want to give her a nice Sindarin name. My grandmother was from Rohan and I was named for her, but I was always jealous of the other girls with their pretty Elven names with pretty meanings."

The stranger looked down his nose at her belly, as was his habit when he was thinking about life growing in there and turning into a person.

"How do you know it's a girl?"

"I just know," Cerys shrugged, throwing the last of the potatoes in the pot, "A girl to be born in the city of kings, beneath the branches of the white tree."

"I don't like Gilraen," he said imperiously. "I prefer Ivorwen, if it _must_ be Sindarin."

"What's that one mean?"

"Maiden." He said.

Cerys smacked him in the arm.

"It's bad enough you're calling me '_woman'_ day and night, you won't be calling the baby '_girl_'. Not that you have any say in the matter."

* * *

She was dreaming of a soldier made of mist, singing the song that she liked to hum. He sang every word, with a strange old-fashioned accent. He was a peaceful figure, but terribly sad. All at once, he stopped singing and drew his sword.

Cerys snapped awake and sat up. There was a snarling growl, then a flash of red fire and a whimpering cry. As she came to her senses, she realized that the camp was surrounded by a pack of golden eyed wolves, larger than any wolves she'd seen before. They were stalking quickly, trying to close in on the cart.

The horse reared in fear, once and then again, dropping his front legs with such force that the cart shook beneath Cerys.

A wolf broke from the circle and leapt towards her. Everything was happening all at once. There was another flash of fire, and that was when she noticed that the stranger was on his feet, brandishing one of the burning logs from the campfire. He cracked it against the wolf's skull, and the animal fell to the ground in agony.

Gathering her wits, she pulled the crossbow out of its box and began to load it.

The stranger swung at another wolf, catching its pelt with the flame. Three of them were dead, or too wounded to keep attacking, and only four were left. One of them got close to the cart, snarling and baring its blood-stained teeth.

Cerys pulled the trigger and the bolt went straight into its neck. She stood up and began firing on the others.

The stranger saw her, dropped his torch, and jumped into the driver's seat. He snapped the reins and shouted for the horse to run. When the cart started to move, it was so quick that Cerys almost fell backwards. But she kept her footing and fired at the wolves giving chase.

Another of them crumpled to the ground.

It seemed to make the others think twice. They stopped, and howled as the cart moved on towards the west.

Cerys put the crossbow down and tried not to throw up.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks, as usual, to the lovely_ AliceNotInWL _for her help. And thanks to you for reading!_


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